Death at the Workhouse

by Emily Organ

  “Someone must have placed it here by accident,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll come looking for it before long. Perhaps you could hold on to it in case the owner asks after it.”

  He sighed and took the book from me. “I’ll put it on the lost property shelf.”

  “Thank you.”

  The clerk opened the book again as he began to walk away, then stopped and returned to my side.

  “This book is yours,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

  “But it isn’t. I have never owned that book.”

  Mr Retchford opened the book at the page he had just stumbled across and showed it to me.

  “It has your name in it. You are Miss Penelope Green, are you not?”

  I looked down at the title page, where my name had been written in black ink. My heart gave a heavy thud.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Someone must have left it on my desk as a gift.”

  “How very kind of them,” he said, snapping the book shut and handing it back to me.

  I glanced around the reading room as the clerk strode away, looking for anyone who might have been watching this scene unfold, but everything appeared as normal. Most people had their heads bent over their desks or were busy perusing the bookshelves. I felt slightly annoyed with the people sitting around me for failing to notice who had placed the book on my desk.

  I sat down, and my hands trembled a little as I leafed through each page of the book. Could there be a message for me hidden within its pages?

  But as I flicked through the pages I found nothing of the sort. The only handwriting in the book was my name on the title page. I examined the handwriting again. Did it look familiar?

  I didn’t recognise it as having been written by anyone I knew. Perhaps I was mistaken, but the title of the book seemed to be some sort of jibe, implying that I required further instruction in my chosen profession.

  Was this really a malevolent gift, as I suspected? Or was it a genuine gift for which I had simply misread the intent? I conjectured that a genuine gift would have included the name of the person bestowing it. There was something rather sinister about the anonymity.

  I pushed the book to one side and returned to my work, trying to appear as unaffected by the episode as possible. If my mysterious benefactor were still in the room and watching me, he or she would no doubt gain great satisfaction from any discomfort I displayed. I tried to steady my hand as I wrote, but it wasn’t easy.

  Someone was watching me. They had known which desk I was sitting at, and they had known when I was away from it.

  But who could it be?

  I tried to think of anyone I might have upset recently, but the only person who sprang to mind was Mr Hale from the workhouse. Was it possible that he had placed the book on my desk? It seemed extremely unlikely, as his work would surely have kept him too busy to do such a thing. Perhaps it was one of my colleagues, Edgar or Frederick, playing a practical joke on me.

  I finished my research, then carefully packed my work and the guide to journalism into my carpet bag. I checked behind me when I left the reading room, but the only person who looked over in my direction was Mr Retchford.

  I scurried down the steps of the British Museum and looked around as I went. I couldn’t see anyone who appeared to be following me.

  Chapter 19

  “I apologise that I shall be unable to assist in reading to the infirmary patients for the foreseeable future,” I said to Miss Russell as we stood beside the workhouse door in The Land of Promise.

  “There is no need to explain any further, Miss Green,” she replied. “I have already received a visit from Mr Hale.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “He told me that he found you poking around in the men’s wing.”

  “I must admit that I was. I have been reporting on the sad deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker.”

  “But you’re not permitted to wander around the workhouse alone.”

  “No, I realise that now and have apologised to Mr Hale.”

  “He said that you didn’t immediately explain to him that you were there in your role as a news reporter.”

  “Not immediately, no.”

  “Instead, you told him that you had been helping me and Mrs Menzies with reading to the patients in the infirmary.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “So he was rather cross with me that one of the people who came to assist me with reading decided to wander off to places she wasn’t supposed to go.”

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry he was cross with you, Miss Russell. He strikes me as a singularly grumpy man.”

  “And he has every right to be if people are found wandering around the men’s wing! You weren’t supposed to be there!”

  “No, it was rather unfortunate that he found me there.”

  “What exactly were you doing there, Miss Green? Trying to get information for your newspaper?”

  “I apologise, Miss Russell. To be completely honest with you I was rather concerned by the verdict of the inquest into two deaths that occurred in the stone-breaking yard.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.”

  “It was assumed that one man murdered the other and then died from his injuries. That may have been the case, but I think other possibilities also need to be considered. Therefore, I took a detour to see the stone-breaking yard for myself and identify any possible witnesses. I found a man there who may have heard and seen something significant that night.”

  “Isn’t that a job for the police?”

  “Yes it is, and I have been able to convince a good friend of mine, who happens to be a Scotland Yard inspector, that further questions need to be asked of the inmates.”

  “I’m not sure I understand your role as a news reporter, Miss Green. I thought your responsibility was to report on events rather than to get involved in investigating them.”

  “You’re not the first person to say that to me, Miss Russell. Although my job is to report on what is happening around me, I prefer to report the truth. The truth is not always what the authorities like us to write about. I want to make the public aware of what is really happening. We cannot simply accept everything the authorities and the courts tell us; we need to question things. And as a reporter I think I am well placed to do so.”

  “I think your cause is admirable, Miss Green, and I wish you luck in establishing the truth of the case. However, the fact of the matter remains that your motive in helping us read to the patients was not an altruistic one. You were doing so to gain access to places you would otherwise have been prohibited from.”

  “No, that wasn’t my motive at all. I wanted to help!”

  “You used it as a cover with Mr Hale. You didn’t tell him you were a news reporter who was concerned about the verdict of an inquest; you told him you were a volunteer who had got herself lost. Now he’s angry with me about it, and there is a risk that we shall be forbidden from doing the work we and the patients enjoy so much!”

  There was a long pause. I didn’t know what to say other than to apologise again.

  “I really am sorry, Miss Russell. I was wrong to do what I did. I should have been honest with Mr Hale, as you say, and not brought you and your cause into it. I believe you are doing great work here, and I should be extremely upset if it were to stop as a result of my foolish actions. Please don’t think that I only volunteered in order to further my own professional interests. It was with genuine enthusiasm that I asked to join you, and for no other reason. If you would like me to explain that to Mr Hale—”

  “There’s no need.”

  “Or perhaps I could write an article about the good work you’re doing here. It’s high time that people heard about it.”

  “There’s no need for any sort of appeasement, thank you. Mrs Menzies and I shall go and read to the patients now. We only have two hours with them.”

  “Of course. I shan’t hold you up any longer.”

  I watched Miss Russell and Mrs Menzies climb the workhouse steps with their
books in their arms and felt devastated that I wouldn’t be joining them. I had well and truly broken their trust.

  I felt a lump in my throat as I thought of old Mrs King and her toothless smile, and the children listening, wide-eyed, to Gulliver’s Travels. I had truly enjoyed my time reading to them. I’d had an opportunity to do something worthwhile, but sadly I had ruined it.

  Chapter 20

  “Maisie Hopkins has been a busy woman,” said James as we met on Market Street in Mayfair. “We’ve found three shops where she pawned the belongings of Lord Courtauld, and have managed to recover around thirty items so far. The fate of others may have been less traceable. There’s a known criminal who calls himself a blacksmith near Shepherd Market I need to have a conversation with.”

  “Any sign of Miss Hopkins herself?”

  “None, I’m afraid. She knows this area well, however, so we’re hopeful that she hasn’t strayed far.”

  “I wonder where she’s staying.”

  “All being well, it won’t be too long before we find out.”

  We began to walk along narrow Market Street, where the awnings of the little shops met over our heads.

  “Inspector Ferguson and I spoke with Horace yesterday,” said James.

  “How did you get on?”

  “You didn’t tell me he was simple-minded!”

  “Is he?”

  “Penny, you must have realised. You told me yourself that he didn’t say a great deal.”

  “Not a great deal, but he communicated in the best way he knew how. He may not be particularly talkative but that doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. He clearly has enough intellect to work in the storeroom and to know that he heard something that night.”

  “Well, he didn’t strike me as being particularly articulate, and you wouldn’t like to hear what Inspector Ferguson made of the matter!”

  “I certainly would. What did he make of it?”

  “Well, the conversation in which I introduced the idea that the inquest might have been flawed did not go down well with him, as you can imagine. He considered the case to have been closed. After a great deal of persuasion he finally agreed that we could go to the workhouse and interview this witness you spoke to. That required us to obtain permission from the clerk and the master, and they were quite perturbed to hear that a third person might have been involved! They didn’t want to consider the idea that there may be a murderer in their midst.”

  “Of course not, but it might still be true.”

  “Oh, Penny.” James shook his head. “The situation worsened from there. Mr Lennox was particularly amused to hear that we wished to speak to Horace, and when I met the lad I could see why! He is not a reliable witness, I’m afraid.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of his limited intellect!”

  “But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he was mistaken.”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t, but can you imagine him standing as a witness in a courtroom? Suppose we manage to find a culprit and put him on trial. What would the jury make of a boy who is unable to string two words together? Not to mention the fact that the lad would be terrified by such a prospect. He was quivering when Mr Lennox, Inspector Ferguson and I questioned him.”

  “I’m sure he was! Poor boy.”

  “Can’t you see that he is of no help to us? Inspector Ferguson was appalled that I had taken up so much of his time by asking him to go and speak to the boy.”

  “But what did Horace tell you?”

  “Very little.”

  “Did he mention that he was in the storeroom until ten o’clock and that he heard shouting in the yard?”

  “He did, though not in so many words.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Well yes, I did. Although he doesn’t speak much, he seemed quite honest and earnest.”

  “Was he able to tell you at what time he heard the shouting?”

  “There’s a clock in the storeroom, and he thought that it was at about ten minutes past eight that he heard the shouting. That doesn’t fit with what we already know about the crime, as Mr Walker didn’t leave the day room until a quarter past eight.”

  “Ah, but it does fit, don’t you see? It fits with the idea that a third person was involved. There must have been an altercation between the culprit and Mr Patten, and then Mr Walker arrived a short while later. Perhaps Mr Walker was killed because he was a witness to the murder.”

  James gave this some thought. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “Of course it is!”

  “But we cannot be sure that Horace is correct about the time. He says it was ten minutes past eight, but it could have been an hour earlier or later for all we know. He is not a very reliable witness.”

  “Did he look out into the yard when he heard the shouting?”

  “He said that he did, but it was dark and he couldn’t see anything.”

  “You’d have thought Mr Patten would have had a lantern with him. In fact, he did! Two lanterns were found beside the bodies of the men, weren’t they? How had Patten’s lantern been extinguished by the time Horace looked out?”

  “That’s an interesting thought.”

  “The culprit must have extinguished it so that no one was able to witness the murder.”

  “Then why was Walker killed if it was too dark for him to have witnessed the murder?”

  “Because he walked into the yard with his lantern!”

  “Of course. So he might have seen something.

  “Maybe there are other witnesses,” I suggested.

  “Inspector Ferguson told me he had issued an appeal for witnesses when he first investigated the case. There was no word from anyone then, not even Horace.”

  “Perhaps some people felt nervous about talking to the police. Besides, some may have seen or heard something they didn’t consider to be suspicious but might actually serve as a clue.”

  “They may well have done, but finding them and extracting the relevant information is often like squeezing blood out of a stone!”

  “So what can we do next?”

  “If we want to prove that a third person was involved we need to uncover some sort of evidence that he was in the yard with those two men. Reliable witnesses would help, but it’s unlikely that there are any to be found.”

  “Then what can we do?”

  “I don’t know. Inspector Ferguson isn’t interested, that’s for sure. As soon as he started speaking to Horace the inspector felt convinced that he was wasting his time. He accepts the findings of the inquest and has other cases to be focusing his attention on.”

  “So he doesn’t care.”

  “I’m sure he does, Penny, but he and his men are busy. And this case is rather obscure. In fact, there may not be a case here at all.”

  “Then we must simply wait for the murderer to strike again.”

  “If there is one.”

  “I suppose there’s a small chance that there isn’t.”

  “And there is only so much we can do. I wish we had the time and capacity to question every inmate who passed through or happened to be near the stone-breaking yard that evening, but we don’t. Nor will we be granted the men to work on it given that the inquest found there was no case to answer.”

  “And how will you feel if the murderer strikes again?”

  “Upset and angry, as I’m sure you would be. But that may never happen, Penny.”

  We passed through the market stalls in Shepherd Market and found the blacksmith’s forge in a narrow street behind the King’s Arms tavern. James knocked at a paint-splintered door, which was swung open by a man dressed in a leather apron and a dirty, collarless shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His bare forearms rippled with muscle, and the beads of perspiration running down his face left trails in the grime.

  “I ain’t done nuffink, Hinspector,” he said with a lop-sided smile.

  Even though James wore plain clothes, it amused me that men with any hint of criminality about them were alwa
ys able to identify him as a police officer.

  “What, nothing at all, Mr Brooks?” asked James.

  “Nuffink. Who’s this?” he asked, looking me up and down with a glint in his eye.

  “This is Miss Green of the Morning Express newspaper. She is reporting on the disappearance of the maid Maisie Hopkins, who ran off with some of the Courtauld family’s treasure. Have you heard about her?”

  “Yeah, I fink I ’eard summink about it.”

  “And I’m Inspector Blakely of Scotland Yard. We’ve come to talk to you about Maisie.”

  “Well, I ain’t gonna be of no ’elp to neither of yer.”

  “May we please come in?”

  “Course!” He flung the door wide in an exaggerated gesture of welcome. “Come in and yer’ll see that I ain’t got nuffink to ’ide these days. I ain’t hashamed to say that it ain’t always been the case. But I’ve learnt me lessons and mended me ways.”

  “That’s good to hear,” replied James, surveying the room as we stepped inside.

  Smoke from the blazing fire curled around the heavy oak beams in the ceiling. Greasy sackcloth hung across the windows, and the worktables were laden with hammers, tongs and pliers of all shapes and sizes. Two large anvils sat in front of the fire. My eyes began to water from the smoke, and I wondered how anyone could work comfortably in this environment.

  “Well, ’ere you are. This is me ’umble hestablisment, Hinspector.”

  “Have you ever received a visit from Miss Hopkins?” James asked.

  “Can’t say as I ’ave. Who might she be?”

  “The maid I was just telling you about.”

  “Oh, ’er. Nope.”

  “Are you quite sure about that?”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “About twenty years old with dark hair and dark eyes.”

  Mr Brooks grinned. “I’d of knowed abaht it if she’d of paid me a visit!”

  “Has she been here, Mr Brooks?”

  “Can’t say as I remember.”

  “Because one of your neighbours said that she called at this place about three days ago.”